Serving Cautious
by cswrites
Summary: Beth doesn't know when she started feeling like this. Like, the entire city was trying to drown her. Like, wanting to build herself as her own persona, away from what she's always known, was all a hallucination and she'd made a terrible terrible mistake. [Bethyl Neighbor AU]
1. Chapter 1

People, when in doubt, are good. That's what Beth reminds herself as the man in front of her haucks back into his throat and propels his head forward to spit viciously at the tiled ground, below. The bald of his head, surrounded by slick and greasy strands of black, shines under the florescent lights as he baubles about in his actions. He's taller than she is, but still short enough to see the tired and burly man behind the counter glare, as Spitter raises a coated arm to wipe at the residue left behind on his mouth. And she knows, as a working girl, herself, how the man with the name tag must feel; even though she is probably disgusted enough for the both of them. And stunned. Because, sometimes Beth forgets that some people think they can act however they want to, here in the big city. She darts big blue eyes from the shiny patch of skin, to the spit splatted onto the dirty floor, to the cashier; and attempts to offer him her most sympathetic smile. But, he's not paying her any mind. He's watching Spitter rifle through a black leather wallet for the few bucks needed to pay for his eight boxes of microwave lasagna.

A few snorts and heavy breaths later, Spitter grabs his two bags off of the counter and turns to leave. She catches his attention, first, though. Standing there with her small town looks, her gallon of milk, and package of whole wheat bagels in hand. She also happens to be wearing a pair of light pink pajama bottoms that are speckled with tiny white flowers all over the fabric. The ends are tucked haphazardly into the brim of her boots, so that they don't glide across the early morning mist that's soaked into the streets. And (seeing as it's only just after five) her eyes are tired.

"Good mornin'," she responds to his uncomfortable leer, with a downward tip of her head and her smile faltering ever so slightly. His chuckle is just as off putting as the puddle on the ground, which she promptly steps around to make her way to the counter to slide her items over.

It's brisk out, this morning, and she wants to get back.

Nine dollars and forty-six cents later, Beth reaches out a small hand to grab the plastic bag being pushed her way.

"Thank you," her fingers wrap through the two small loops and tug forward to bring the weight of the bag banging gently against her thigh. And then she's pushing the glass door open with the flat of her palm. The bell overhead dings on her way out into the elements; wind immediately whipping stray wisps of blonde hair that haven't managed to remain in her loosely strung ponytail, into her eyes. Wind dancing across the smooth flesh of her cheek, making it blush from the chill.

She should be more used to this.

The cold.

Beth can practically hear the heals of her boots thumping in her ears, like a heartbeat, as they puncture out a beat against the pressed gum and stray paper ridden pavement. It's not like the farm and the lush green plush of the grass sliding against the souls of her shoes. Or, like the rough gravel of their front walk scratching together as she walks in the direction of the aging barn on the far side of the property. This pavement is flat and dirty. And she's surrounded by other early risers on their way to work and breakfast. Towards bosses and bacon.

She does her best to duck and dodge those who feel they own the sidewalk. Coated shoulders knocking against coated shoulders. There's enough room to not be on top of each other at this time of the morning, but it doesn't seem to matter to anyone else. To all of these people who seem to believe it's below them to look anyone else in the eye for more than half a second and sneer when one apologizes for getting in their way. She waits at the curb for the walk way sign to flash with a little green running man, before starting across the street; her hand gripping the strap of her purse.

Beth doesn't quite know what she expected when she'd first loaded all of those brown cardboard boxes into the back of her old pick up, that had been passed down to her from her Daddy. The tan one with the long cab seat and wired radio that she'd grown up in; taking the long winding roads into town for her mom's weekly Errand Day. It had been a loved and celebrated occasion when she was still braiding her hair into pigtails on either side of her head and decorating each of them with a bow. Yellow. To match her hair. And then to school every morning from kindergarten to high school, before she was finally taught to drive it on her own.

Beth's not stupid and she ain't never been stupid. She knew that it'd be different.

She was more than aware that once her Daddy and mom dropped her off, that all of those familiar things in her life would change. She knew that she wouldn't be able to walk out her front door to feel the uninterrupted sunshine against her skin. That she wouldn't even have a front door to call her own. Or, at least one that led immediately to the outside world and not a dingy hallway with a flickering light bulb. Sky scrappers and automobile smog would dampen the night sky. The bright and clear stars lighting the black canvas she was so familiar with would be a thing of the past, for the time being.

Beth knew that taking a stroll down to the nearby convenient store a block or two away wouldn't be the same as strolling into the local market on a late Saturday afternoon to pick up the items her mom had phoned in for. Pattie, the register lady (always sat proudly at first till), and her round and accustomed face wouldn't be around to call out to her in greeting when the cow bell attached to the door rattled against her arrival. Wouldn't be nearby to grill her about "which ever boy's got The Eyes" for her, as of late. That the tired man behind the counter at Franco's (the one who had to deal with gross men spitting onto his floor at five in the morning - and probably a plethora of other disgusting things) still hadn't registered the plains of her face and probably never would; even after visiting as often as she did.

She knew this and yet… she wasn't as prepared, as she ought to of been. Not really. And so, when the leggy woman with the brown designer coat and sky high black heals knocks into her (two feet from the front of her building) and doesn't even think to utter an apology; Beth straightens herself back up, walks to the main door, puts her key in the lock, and tries to remind herself that people, when in doubt, are good.

xxxxx

The clunk of her feet against the stairs thuds out in the empty stairwell and Beth sighs for the eighty millionth time.

She lives on the fifth floor and (like some ridiculous movie cliche) the elevator has been broken since she first moved in. Daddy had scoffed at the conditions of the entry level hallway and fixed her with his most wary look. The grey hairs of his eyebrows pulling in and the corners of his mouth turning down. He'd been trying to convince her that moving away had been a terrible idea, from the very start of the decision. That she wasn't ready to be so far away on her own. That she was too young and too impressionable. And when he'd lent forward and twisted his neck to look up all of the many levels that they were going to have to drag her possessions up, his mind had not been changed. But the building's landlord, an older man with grey hair and a plethora of Hawaiian shirts, had clapped her Daddy carefully on the shoulder and offered him a reassuring smile. "I've got somebody coming in to fix that," he'd promised while sliding a muted gold key into Beth's shaking hand. "Don't you worry about it."

That had been two months ago. Two months of Beth dragging her tired or wired body up and down this these same black steps. Two months of huffing breaths, as she felt the ache of her feet after a long day standing on her feet.

She continues to pull the heavy weight of her boots up each stair, one by one, until she hears it. The barking. The barking she hears every morning, at some time or another. Happy and deep yips coming out of the dog that Beth is pretty sure lives in 5C, which is diagonally across the walk. She's never seen it, before. The dog. But, even in her own apartment in her back bedroom, she's continuously woken up every day at five by it's morning greetings from across the hall.

A living alarm clock she didn't ask for and doesn't know how to return to the store, without a receipt.

Usually she nods right back to sleep, after a little deliriously sputtered confusion into the dark morning air; blonde hair tangled around her ears and droopy eyelids fluttering, as the barking and a quiet voice slowly passes by her door and down the stairs. But some days, like today, she just can't seem to fall back under and ends up scrounging for an early breakfast before work, before realizing she hasn't gone grocery shopping in a week. Then, she shoves her socked feet in her boots (not bothering to change out of whatever pajamas she fell asleep in) and pulls her coat on to walk down the few blocks to Franco's Convenient Store to find something easy and quick to make.

She'd rather have a stack of fluffy, warm, wheat hotcakes. Or, perhaps, the biscuits and sausage gravy that her mom has always been so skilled at making, whenever her kids had a moment before school. But, on a day to day basis, bagels tend to end up being the more likely, out here on her own. Sometimes she can manage to cook up an egg or two if she can happen to find the time - before she has to dash through a stream of water and soap, throw her itchy uniform on, and shuffle herself off to her too many hours at the diner.

As she lands on the flat plain of her floor, she steps up to the door closest to the stairwell, 5A, and shoves her gloved hand under the front flap of her purse to rummage around for her key ring. It usually falls down to the bottom of her bag, underneath crumpled receipts, empty sucker wrappers, and the black inked clicky pens that she's become so accustomed to over the last sixty or so days. It's going on six in the morning, though, and she's only got so long to shower. So, she makes quick work of locating what she needs to and letting herself inside. The swish of her door sliding against her tan carpet and shutting is echoed by the swoosh of another separate door opening out in the hall and the quick clicking of blunt nails dancing repeatedly on the wood floor, as well.

Beth reaches the flat of her palm out to brace herself on the wall, while she pushes off her shoes, with her toes.

Her feet hurt and she hasn't even spent all day on them, yet.

"I get it; you gotta piss," a rough and tired voice mumbles through the dark wood of her door. It's followed by a small huff of breath and the clicking scratching on past her and down the stairs that she just finished climbing. Yeah, Beth has never seen the dog that won't stop waking her up too early every morning. But, she's never seen the owner, either. If she ever _does_ manage to track down the face that goes along with the voice she hears from time to time, she doesn't actually know what she'd do about it. Two months ago, when she was setting a box down (the one carrying the bright orange plates that her mom had bought for her) on top of another one just outside her door, a short and concerning hunched man had shuffled out of the apartment next to hers; muttering to himself about what the birds had told him when he'd sat on his porch the night prior. Her Daddy had grumbled underneath his breath and fixed her mom with a distressed look, before he turned to her and told her to be careful while she was alone in the city; day or night, it didn't matter. To be careful and mindful of her surroundings. To lock her door at night, before she went to sleep. To lock her door during the day, when she was wide awake. To be _cautious_ of all of these new people that she was choosing to surround herself with, instead of her flesh and blood. Which turned out to be yet another massive change that Beth wasn't used to, yet; not knowing everybody and everything around her, at all times.

Not knowing all of her neighbors.

Not knowing all of their various interests and various habits and various times that they roll into church on every Sunday morning; when the warm sun has just risen to that special spot in the sky and the birds are chirping in content greetings.

If any of them even _go _to church.

If Beth was to take a six hour drive out of the city, she'd find herself in a town full of people she knew and who knew her, in return. People and neighbors and friends that she'd grown up with - in one of those towns that she knows the rest of the people on the planet don't even think are real. One of those towns where you can't help but to recognize and have relations with the faces and names of every single being you passed in street; including those of the dogs attached to the leashes casually clutched in loose fingers.

She'd know of John Crafter, his thick brown beard, and his wonky, left, big toe that he'd stubbed one day against his tractor (which never did manage to set right). She'd know he always walked with a slight limp because of it and liked to show the crooked angle of the bone off to whatever little kids showed their peeked interest. She'd know of his large and healthy corn field, which never seemed to be anything other than perfectly green. Like, how corn fields look on television and in the movies. The field that he allowed the local elementary school to take field trips to, whenever the weather got warmer and he could wrangle together enough additions to offer up hay rides to bubbly children.

She'd know of Mrs. Fleeting and her six stray cats; bowls of milk and meal lining along the flat of her front yard. Beth knew that if she walked past the small and comfortable home on Tuesdays, just before the streetlamp's came on, Mrs. Fleeting would waddle her weight through her squeaky screen door, with a basket of chocolate chip cookies for Beth to take home to her own family. Then, as per tradition her brother, Shawn, would eat the majority of them, before the rest of the household even got a proper chance.

Mrs. Fleeting had taught her once (when Daddy had taken her mom out of town to a relative's party that Beth wasn't invited to - and she'd been left there for watching over) how to add the eggs and the butter and the sugar at just the right moments. How to beat all of the ingredients together to produce the softest batch and how to present them to people with a large and blinding smile.

She'd know of the Jone's and their three boys, all of who lived in the light blue house on Chestnut Avenue - in between the hardwood store and the local Soda Shoppe. The light blue house with the large, oak wood, wrap around porch and the old worn tire swing that liked to sway gently with the breeze of the day. She knew of their two eight year old twins, Petey and Louis, with flaming red hair, freckled faces, and mud ridden t-shirts.

The corners of Beth's lips twitched familiarly, while she shuffled further into her apartment; shrugging her coat off of her shoulders and tossing it over the back of her couch. Then, making her way towards the kitchen and towards the toaster oven.

She knew of the twin's older brother, Jimmy, who Beth had known from play dates since she was just a little girl who still brought her peanut butter and jelly to school in a plastic Spice Girls lunchbox, with matching thermos full of apple juice. Jimmy Jones, with his gangling, long limbs and twitchy gaze. Jimmy Jones, who had chucked mashed potatoes at her during lunch period, from third to fifth grade. Before realizing, one day in their sophomore year of high school, that he'd much rather brush unsure lips across the flush of her cheek and awkwardly shove the sweaty pads of his fingers underneath the hem of her shirt and up towards the edge of her bra.

Uncomfortable and unsure in all of the ways that virginal teenagers must be, at one point in their lives.

She frowns, as she pulls a bagel out from it's plastic wrapping and throws it onto the metal rack that's been heating up. The glowing clock on the microwave about the toaster oven says it's 6:05, which gives her five minutes to eat, ten minutes to shower, two minutes to change, eight minutes to successfully complete a twelve minute walk, and _zero_ minutes to remind herself about any of the good times that she has ever had with a kid like Jimmy Jones.

She doesn't have time to think about all of the things in her life that she's less than satisfied with.

Ripping a butter knife out of the drawer and pulling the packet of cream cheese out of the fridge; Beth let's out a shaky breath, as she pulls her bread from the oven and starts to scrape a thin layer of the cheese on top. When she's done, she takes a quick bite and chews, before locking the piece between her teeth and making her way to the bathroom; pulling pieces of clothing off, along the way, and trying to scarf down her breakfast.

She doesn't have time to think about the way Jimmy looked at her when she finally told him to stop calling her or her Daddy's lack of faith in her ability to live alone.

But, she _does_.

She does whenever she opens her refrigerator and remembers she hasn't been to the shop in forever. Or when she looks around to the clothing basket that rests next to her low sat bed, that sits at the far back wall. The basket of syrup and coffee stained polo's that have yet to take the journey from her apartment to the laundry room in the building's basement, in more than a week. She does whenever she thinks of home and all of the things that used to come with that word but, no longer apply; the sound of her mother calling up the stairs to wake her up for school and morning chores, the smell of hotcakes on the griddle in the kitchen, the sight of Daddy sat on the porch reading from the bible, and the horrid stench of a heady and overpowering soup emitting from the bathroom where her brother's taking his morning shower. The body wash that he thought would make the Bird's at school swoon as he walked past.

She does whenever she remembers how _Maggie_ had once been the brave sister that had branched out on her own to go off to college. Had met a cute boy who would lick the ground that she walked on, if only she asked it of him. Had gotten that boy, Glenn, good and attached to her boisterous attitude and her heart. Before caving a little while later and returning home, with him; a country girl through and through. She does whenever she remembers Maggie looking around the tiny space of her apartment and staring her down with that something in her eyes. That something that said, despite their difference in biological mother, that they were the same. The pair of them. That sooner or later, Beth Greene would cave just as Maggie Greene had caved. That she, just like her, didn't have the back bone to be constantly amongst the smog and the noise. To be away from the stars. That her heart would too strongly ache for the feel of grass and untainted air sliding down into her lungs. That she'd miss walking down the street and being able to start a conversation with someone about the next town bake sale. How she'd be making two desserts and how she couldn't wait.

Standing blankly under the weak trickling spray of water that her shower provides (cold in the cold, because she's afraid to use too much hot water), she wonders for the millionth time if her sister is right?

If Daddy is right?

If Jimmy's cold angry gaze and touch were right?

If she was as weak as her whole town seemed to think that she was?

"You'll be back before you blink," Pattie had grinned four days before she left; before registering Beth's face, stalling, squaring her shoulders off, and patting the back of Beth's hand. "I mean … you're going to do great, Bumble Bee. We _all _know it. You know that, right?"

Her breath catches in the base of her throat in the way that it does and she leans further underneath the embarrassment of a stream. Beth doesn't know when she started feeling like this. Like, the entire city, still so strange and unfamiliar, was trying to crush it's steel walls down against the soft flesh of her chest and drown her. Like, she had never actually wanted to get away from wide open fields and the foul but accustomed smell of the manuer that she used to have to shovel almost everyday from the cattle's pen. Like, wanting to build herself as her own individual persona, away from what she's always known and been known as, was all a hallucination that she'd sillily dreamt up, one day. And that she'd made a terrible _terrible_ mistake.

Pulling up at her knee; Beth drags the wet of her feet out from the edge of the tub and to the mat, below. She let's the droplets of water slide down, as she hastefully wraps a towel around the span of her body and starts out of the room. The clock on the microwave says she's wasted too much time in the shower, thinking. So, she towels off her hair for not nearly enough time and hurries on her black pleated skirt and issued, slightly used, navy polo. If Beth remembers correctly, she wore this one a only a few days ago, when a grumpy little boy with mischief in his brown eyes, flicked his scrambled eggs on the floor. Stuck little lumps of yellow settled onto the end of his fork, grabbed hold, pulled back with his thumb, and really let it fly.

Her calves and thighs are still a little damp, so her attempt to pull her black stockings up against the friction has her fumbling a little bit; legs bumping against the arm of her couch and her wet hair flopping around and sticking to the side of her neck. She can't worry about it, though. She can only struggle the stockings into place and put her boots back onto her feet.

The little boy's parents had somehow found a way to make it her fault, as parents out in public often seem to do. As if she'd been sat on his shoulder _encouraging_ their little devil to be a darn pain in her ass; to secure her the extra work of scrounging up the dust pan from the back room and sweeping up little crumbles of food and other various bits that she didn't want to think about, at the time. She hadn't done so and she hadn't been pleased with the accused assumption. Beth loves herself some kids. But, not that one.

Sweeping dripping hair into a fast and messy bun sat atop her head, she makes sure that the red logo is situated right and that her name tag is pinned just over it, on her left breast. _Beth G_. Accompanied by a tiny picture of a little egg. It's sunny side up. It has eyes … and legs.

It's _dancing_.

She wants to roll her eyes at the caricature, because it's silly and far more excited to be an egg, than an egg should ever be. But, when in doubt, her job at _The Dog_ is a constant in her new life of non-constants and she needs that. So, she takes the ugly little egg in stride, does her absolute best to find it as fun and cute, as she knows that it's supposed to be, and makes sure to grab her apron before flying out of her door and back down the stairs.

xxxxx

The all too familiar sound of eggs, bacon, and batter sizzling on the stove invades her senses (all of her senses), as Beth grabs the prosperously red handle on the glass door and shuffles herself out of the wind and inside. The smell of an actual breakfast frying up on the stove and the low thrum of conversation from the few patrons who are already sat at tables and in booths, warms Beth's heart in a way she's all too happy to admit. Even in this place of pain sometimes, to her head and her feet; she's determined to find pleasure. In fact, she's pretty sure that her job at the diner is the only thing keeping her afloat, at the moment. It's the only thing that she's got that (no matter how terrible the work actually is) reminds her that she's doing it; surviving without her Daddy in the next bedroom over to lead her right when she's walked astray in life.

_The Dog_ is large enough to move around comfortably and not be sitting on top of the next table over. But, it's small enough to _feel_ small. Close enough quarters and tan painted walls that feel familiar. It's a family vibe in the middle of the steel walls that surround their every being. Beth likes it here, because it reminds her of the family house. There are knickknacks lining the walls; signs, awards, and photos of old employees and new ones. The tables in the middle of the floor are wood instead of aluminum and the chairs are white to contrast the dark of the grain. The booths along the walls have cushions to soften your seating, but those get on Beth's nerves from time to time, because they've got to be washed and vacuumed after so many uses.

Shrugging her shoulders in a circular motion, she shucks her coat off, as she strides in through the front walk and past the counter; where Haley, a young girl with her light brown hair pulled into a simple ponytail, is wiping down silverware.

"Hey, girl," Haley greets, glancing up through her lashes, taking in Beth's rumpled appearance; her wet hair and tired eyes, and finally laughing too loud into the morning air. "Wow … you look like _shit_," the corners of her lips turn up in a teasing grin. "Hey, remember when you first got a job here? You looked _so_ fucking perfect everyday, with your cute little braids and perfectly applied makeup — I wanted to stab myself in the gut."

Beth rolls her eyes and huffs a small breath, as she hangs her coat and bag on the employee rack on the far wall. "I look the same, Haley," she states, as she rifles through her bag to grab the fabric tucked inside and drags her white apron out. It's made for full body use but, like every other day, Beth folds the top down and pulls the string around the indent of her waist.

"Oh no. Nope. You _totally_ don't," Haley leans further into the counter and continues her lazy swiping. A man in a sharply ironed suit pushes the front door open and looks around, but Haley does nothing but frown in annoyance, wave a hand in the direction of all of the open tables, and continue to speak. "You look like one of us _regular_ folk. It's a nice change."

The bow Beth ties is tight and structured, settled in place against the low of her back, just like a bow is supposed to look. She pats her hands down against it, making sure she's got everything she needs to start the day; that the notepad in the front pocket is heavy against her hip and one of pens is secure on the lip of the fabric. When she knows she's all set she heads back out to where Haley is. Then, she grabs the coffee pot that's already been brewed and swerves back out from behind the counter towards the businessman who had decided to sit in her section.

Haley is loud. That's the first thing that Beth had said to describe her coworker when Daddy had called seven days after he'd first dropped her off and left her behind. Haley is _loud _and she's brash and sometimes (which actually means almost all of the time) she says things about Beth that, from anyone else, would and should be taken as an insult. Things about her appearance in the morning or the way that she responds to the nasty old women with purple hair, who always sits in Beth' section and steals the sugar packets. (With a chirpy little smile and a boatload of the manners she was born and raised with on her little Georgia farm.) But, Haley does the same exact thing to everyone that she comes into contact with. She mocks the girls that the pair of them work with from time to time, that always call off from work on the busiest days. She cackles over T's singing (that all of them can always hear through the kitchen window) as he's making chicken fingers for grubby little kids. She shares too much information and requests too much in return, if she thinks you're in a mood to take the questioning. Haley babbles on too loud when everyone around her has just woken up and pokes fun at the things that she knows you're worrying about. And so, she knows that there are days, like this one, where Beth walks into _The Dog _with a pre-determined chip on her shoulder; even if she doesn't particularly know why.

"Coffee mister?" Beth asks, as she rounds up on the table. But, the man doesn't say anything to her . So, Beth hovers there for far too long, in her opinion, as he types away at his phone; continuing to ignore her. "... Mister?" she tries again. And Beth knows, without looking behind her, that Haley is snickering into the spoon that she's probably been rubbing for the last half hour, as she ignores the tables she's supposed to be serving.

Haley hates people.

Haley hates people almost as much as Beth hates waking up at five in the morning, without any proper reason to.

"_Mister?_ Coffee?" Beth asks again and she waits, as he clicks a few more times against the keys. When he finally finds it in himself to stop, he flips his cup over without saying anything and glares in her direction. The heat from the top of the pot is sliding up through the air and it's making the side of Beth's neck sort-of hot. But, she doesn't say anything about that or how annoying she already knows that he's going to be; just reaches out her hand to grab the mug and pull it closer to her to pour in the hot liquid. He's finally set his phone to the side and looks her over. He's the same sort-of unpleasant that Beth is becoming so used to in the city. Far too big for his britches and without an ounce of class or respect for the people going out of their ways to make other's lives just a horse's hair easier. "We've got everything we serve on this menu, right here," she bites out with a controlled smile, pulling the pot away and tugging a plastic covered menu out from the wicker basket in the center of the table. "We're servin' all breakfast items all day. But, you can order lunch, as well. T' would be happy to fry somethin' up." She watches him watch her and arches an eyebrow in question, "… Or are you just planning on sittin' here?"

"I'll take the turkey omelette," his voice spews and he raises a hand to run through his over-gelled hair. Beth pulls her pen out to write his order down with a nod and begins to turn away but, his voice catches her again. "The menu says it's two eggs, but I'd obviously like three. And if you could be so kind," his growl pulls into a lazy smile that has Beth remembering Spitter, from earlier in the morning. "You'll get that out _real_ quick, Sweetheart. No real man likes a dawdler. We want them to finish quick."

She can feel her lost hour of sleep beginning to creep up on the bones holding her body together, already, and it's only her first customer. So, Beth does her best to suppress the rolling of her eyes from happening directly in front of him, as she spins on the ball of her feet and not so nicely stomps over to the window. Haley watches her trek, without moving her head and tosses the spoon down, so she can pick up a fork.

The sudden tensing of her shoulders relaxes some as her boss' voice grows louder, but she doesn't feel any better. "I need a turkey omelette. With_ three _eggs, please," she says with a false chipper tone, leaning in some, so that she can see T. Dog's head bopping up and down, along to the radio that he's mounted on the far wall. He's smiling (another morning person, in her life) and singing along to some smooth jam number that Beth hasn't ever had the pleasure of hearing, before.

"Well, hello to you, too!" His voice is as bright and clear as the first breath of morning air. His head is dotted with little speckles of sweat, but he doesn't seem to mind. He simply flips the french toast that he's been working on and immediately swirls to crack the eggs and pull up a whisk. "One of those mornings, I see. Don't you worry, kid. It's gonna be a good day!"

Beth's not so sure, though. On days like this, when she's up before the sun, one bad thing tends to follow another bad thing and the goodness of the day never seems to find it's feet. It continues to waddle around in concerning patterns, like a new broken rider pulling itself off a horse for the first time. Wide and certainly unstable steps, crashing one right into the other.

"Tough morning, then?" Haley plops down onto on of the stools that they've got set up behind the cash register. She's got a plate in one hand and one of the forks she's just cleaned, in the other. But, this time the plate has sausage links on it and she's chewing on one of them. Beth rolls her head on her shoulders in a way that's supposed to indicate that her friend has it right. And, as always, Haley gets it. "Is it still the dog? How can it still be the fucking dog?"

"It's bladder is biologically set to go off before the roosters call. Don't ask me, I don't get it, either."

"You know what you need to do, Beth?" Haley stabs her fork down - piercing the outer flesh of her link. "You need to track down this _asshole_ across the hall and give him a piece of your mind. Hey! Do you want me to kill him? 'Cause I'll _do_ it."

Beth laughs, then, and finds it in her to offer Haley a small smile of appreciation. "That's just a fantastic idea, Haley, honestly," she hums. "But, I think we'll _not _do that. Mama would be ashamed to know she'd raised such a girl."

"I've heard you talk about your sister," Haley shovels another piece into her mouth and talks around it. "Believe me, she 'ready did."

More people begin to file in, as the sun rises to a more acceptable space in the sky and Beth begins serving her other tables, as T. works on her food. She gets a crying baby, a kid who's banging his fork against the table top, a man who's known to show up every single day to drink just orange juice and nothing else, and the cute little family of three in the corner who smile when she gives them drinks - all in one quick moment. As she walks from person to person to get them situated and orders filed, every single pass, her businessman makes another grating comment.

Her businessman makes another unnecessary request.

Her businessman hounds her for his food.

Beth feels herself fuming and tired and _done_, before she's even truly began the day. So, Haley stops her from walking over, again.

"I got this, girl. You take care of the cute ass cop and his wife. _I'll_ take care of the douche bag with the fake designer suit," she pats Beth's back carefully. T. slides the omelette over and Haley takes it from him with careful hands, so that she doesn't burn herself on the warmth of the plate. From where Beth's standing, re-filling the coffee pots, she's pretty sure she can hear the kindness of her friend's delivery. "Hiya, dude. You're lucky Beth's nicer than me, you know? I would've spit in this."

But, she doesn't have a moment to scold Haley for saying it in front of so many people, because the little drummer boy proceeds to knock over his glass of milk.

xxxxx

Beth would like to get drunk.

In fact, she thinks about it on the whole walk home from _The Dog_. There's no way that she can get away with another night of not doing her laundry, because her black skirt has an unfortunately dried brown stain on the edge - that happens to look horrifically like vomit. It's not, though; it's just oatmeal. But, it smells funky and it's made the fabric all stiff. She doesn't know what she was thinking when she went to grab onto the bowl. T. Dog had told her to wait for just a little while; that the bowl had been sat close to to stove and it need time to cool down. But, she'd went for it without much thought and sent it crashing to her and to the ground. It was one of the five million mistakes that's she's made since she was forced awake. It was one of the six million things that had her slapping her forehead with her hand and praying for the day to end. So, Beth would like to get drunk and wipe this horrific day from her mind. She knows that she doesn't have anything already at home. But, she also knows that she's exhausted. She can practically feel the bags under her eyes drooping further down her face, as gravity does it's job and doesn't really have it in her to stop off somewhere and pick something up. So, instead, she keeps on shuffling her feet and tries to mentally will away her day.

When she comes up to the front of her building, however, she pauses.

There's a rottweiler sitting on the front steps, with it's tongue rolled out from it's mouth, panting happily into thin air. It's got a collar on and a leash attached to it, which is stretched out pin straight, where it's stuck in the wedge of the door.

Beth looks around for half a second, to see no one anywhere nearby. Just this fat little dog, wagging it's tail without a care in the world, despite it's current predicament.

"Dog?" she calls, as she edges herself closer to the steps. Rottweiler's, from what she thinks she knows, are supposed to be mean things, with rotten temperaments. Dangerous. But, this little guy perks at the sound of her voice and attempts to roll his head over in her direction. It doesn't go as well as he'd like it to, however. Because, the pulled tight leash doesn't allow him much give to move. And Beth realizes that it needs somebodies help. "Oh! You poor little puppy!" she calls again; her mood spiked some and rushes up the steps, whilst trying to find her key. The dog keeps panting and swipes a paw out to hit at her leg, completely oblivious. She makes sure to put a hand around the leash, before she tugs the door open, so that he can't run away when she wedges him free. But, the second the door swings open, she's face to _chest_ with a tall man in leather sleeves, struggling with three separate duffle bags and the the leash handle slipping just so out of his finger tips. "I'm so sorry! Do you all need some help?" Beth pulls the door fully open and steps back some to give him some room. Daddy told her to be cautious of everyone and based on what she's learnt, so far, he's more right than she's ever given him credit for.

The man in front of her is tall, with longer dark brown hair falling over and hooding his eyes from her sight. But, underneath all of that fringe, she can see the scowl prominently present on the set of his lips. Beth's first thought is that it's from his obvious predicament; bags falling in his hands and dog pulled too far away from him. But, when he looks up and the blue of his eyes meet hers, her breath is knocked back into her throat. His frustration at _her_ being in his way is shoved full force into her face and she stutters for something else to say that isn't going to make the corners of his lips turn even further south.

Daddy told her to be cautious of everyone and based on what she's learnt, so far, he's more right than she ever wanted to give him credit for - she repeats in her head as she takes in the sight in front of her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Beth registers who she must be standing with. That the little creature, which has decided to lay down where it sat is the cause of all of her problems and the man attached to it is the owner of that cause. This man looks like the definition of her Daddy's advice and suddenly Beth can't recall any of the things that she'd been trying to conjure up to say to him if she ever got the chance. Blank. She's got nothing, but the shock of such a face being hurdled so suddenly in her direction. Still struggling with his bags, he rips the leash out from her hand, without another second wasted.

"… No," is all he grunts underneath his breath, before shuffling around her persons as far away as he can and shuffling to the pick up truck that she hasn't seen parked at the curb.

She watches the dog strut down the stairs after him and sit outside of the drivers' side. He swings the bags up into the bed of the truck and opens the door, where the dog promptly hops inside and walks to the other end. A few seconds later he's in, as well, and the pair of them are pulling away from the curb. She watches the truck drive down the street, before it turns the corner and she's left there alone.

If Beth was to take a six hour drive out of the city, she'd find herself in a town full of people she knew and who knew her, in return. People and neighbors and _friends_ that she'd grown up with - in one of those towns that she knows the rest of the people on the planet don't even think are real. One of those towns where you can't help but to recognize and have relations with the faces and names of every single being you passed in street; including those of the dogs attached to the leashes casually clutched in loose fingers.

But, here, in this city where the stars don't shine on black canvas and the air ain't so clear; she doesn't know anyone. She's got a friend at work with a mouth bigger than the Black Georgia Sea Bass Daddy and Shawn catch during the summer. She's got the man at Franco's who refuses to register her name or presence. Now, she's got this man; with a frustration and annoyance set into the very grains of his face and who can't find the time to kindly accept help when it's offered to him.

And that makes three men in one day that Beth never ever wants to see again. As, she shuffles through the front door, Beth struggles to remember when she started feeling like this and when it would ever change.

**A/N: Okily dokily. Hi there, lovelies! Thanks so much for reading. I can't remember the last time that I attempted to write fanfiction, so I hope that you'll be gentle with my fragile soul, as I figure out the flow of how I want this to go. I've got some plans for this and there will be chapters in Daryl's point of view, as well. Reviews and comments are welcome, of course. And you can find me on tumblr at c-sand. **


	2. Chapter 2

Daryl was just skidding on twelve when he realized for the first time that his brother wasn't all sunshine and good deeds... Okay, he'd realized before that; he's not a fucking idiot, now, and he ain't never been one. Hell, it was hard not to notice when the pair of them had grown up the way that they had; in the environment that they did. Smothered in mangled trepidation, neglect, and the stinging black burn of another _another_ _another_ shot of whiskey sliding down the seared depths of their Pa's throat. It had scorched the both of them and their mama with unmistakable change and temperament; lashing out whenever necessary at whatever necessary. Doing stupid as all hell things that a son 'a bitch couldn't take back no matter how much the devils on their backs drug the sharp points of their claws down their already scared flesh.

Merle Dixon was a tank of trouble in every which way. Always had been. Always _would_ be. That's just the way that the Earth's soil turned and the blood boiled hot in the dark tunnels of his veins. The tunnels of Daryl's, too, more than likely. Way more than likely. Cut from the same ratty cloth, hatched from the same disparaging seed, and baked in the same shoddy shack on the far edge of town; right near the brown gravel road that eventually flattened out to nothing but the dirt and bare bones of the woods, where Daryl would hide when things got particularly bad at home. Merle wouldn't be there. He'd be out in the alleyways with the other bottoms of the barrel taking the blunt end of a baseball bat to raccoon's looking for grub in the bottom wells of state issue garbage bins. Securing the smooth of the base handle in grubby hands, swinging back with all his might, and forcing down into the innocent creature.

His brother's own way of coping.

Daryl hadn't been too aware of all those going's on, while he was on the younger side of the line of death, though. Not for a damn long while. Whenever his Pa swallowed another million gallons of liquid courage and all the hollering started up, Daryl remembers wondering where his brother would up and wander off to. Why it wasn't off into the quiet of the woods to mess around with the dirt and the ponds; rinsing blood of battered knees and elbows. Sides. _Backs_. He'd wonder why Merle sometimes came back with more, instead of less. It felt horribly familiar, looking back on it; the strongest creatures of the world, preying on the weakest ones. Merle doing what was done and it being just as wrong in it's own twisted way, as good 'ol William Dixon taking a belt to the pair of them or a hand to their Ma. Worse, maybe. Maybe not... Maybe around the same. Them little critters couldn't fight back against the wood, even if they wanted to. Not really. Their claws weren't ever gonna be much of a match to the unexpected impact of that damn hunk'a wood and that was just the same way as how he and his brother couldn't fight back against the metal of that belt buckle. The worn silver one, with the bull horns and rope carefully etched deep into the front surface; something expensive in their indigent shack. They couldn't and shouldn't fight back if they had any real desire to make it all stop for the night; the whistle of the metal sliding through the cigarette smoked air and the sting of the belt slicing against flesh. They couldn't fight back if they'd had any desire for Will to slip just past too far gone in his whiskey and pass out for the next day or two. For a simple sort-of silence to fall over them all; their Pa's snoring faintly falling out'a the back room, Ma cussing up a storm and banging around in the kitchen, looking for the money missing from the can on top of the far cabinet, and the static'd voices of the television, playing one of it's four channels, in the background.

To any other house, that was loud.

To the Dixon's? That was peace.

Daryl knows Merle's better than that front, in the long run, though. That for all of his bad and all of his wrong, he ain't _never_ gonna be their Pa. He ain't never gonna fall face first down that slippery slope and be all of the worst kinds of evil in this world, bundled into one horrific package. For all of his bad and his wrong, Merle wouldn't allow it to happen to himself; to be that person. Daryl wouldn't allow it to happen to him, either, if he had anything to do about it. And he did.

But, the three fucking bags in the back bed of his truck aren't doing much to make him feel better about their current situation.

Before Daryl knew all of what he's soaked up, now, tattooed directly onto the bones underneath the flesh of his skin; he was in the dark. Alone in their mutual world of torment and unaware that Merle had his own demons, too. Things that he'd been struggling with, things that someone his age shouldn't have'ta deal with, and people who resembled something along the line of "friends" who weren't afraid to go along with whatever Merle told them to do; fuck the consequences. Daryl used to be one of them and worried that he probably still would be if he was ever pushed hard enough. Should'a known, really. Felt damn foolish for not being aware of the fact, once he'd seen the beginnings of who his big brother really was. After he had seen his brother get locked up that first time, Daryl had truly understood that Merle wasn't no angel who'd get him outta harm's way for as long at the both of them were still sucking air into the open space in their lungs. Yeah, sure, he'd step in against the old man every once and again; boldly take the lashing that was headed straight to the stretch of Daryl's skin. But, when he was going on twelve, he learnt for the first real time that he can't always look out for that; that a sixteen year old Merle (who came along with sixteen year old friends, who'd grown up in the same shitty way, even though it was a unspoken rule that no one ever talked about it) wasn't gonna be somebody that he could rely on, in the long run; even if Merle _wanted _to be that person for his younger brother.

A slight screechy scratching from his right draws Daryl out of his head. The length of his own fingers are gripped tight to the worn leather of the steering wheel and Harley is raking his paw against the dirt spotted glass of the passenger side window in a frustrated manner. His eyes flick back and forth from the outside world to Daryl, almost frowning from accusing neglect.

"Sorry bud," Daryl grumbles and focuses back on the road to take note of where he is. His truck is pulling up to a red light outside _Mac's_, the bar he likes to head down to after a long day. The outside of the building is black and more than a little off-putting in the middle of such a sunny day; the kind of place pretty young things stray far away from on their own, even though there's no real reason to. The crowd's decent enough; a few pieces of shit here and there (which Daryl thinks is pretty much standard in all places of life), but mostly alright guys who want to kick back. The outside looks run down and ratty; the yellow sign, with out of place black calligraphy, hanging just so off center and the awnings fraying at the edges of the fabric. It's ugly, but it's a landmark for his frazzled and distracted brain and let's him know he's eight blocks from his destination. When Daryl finally rolls the truck to a stop, he leans his body over to knock around the Rottweiler that's trying to break free and grab for the window crank. Twisting his wrist to spin it in a circular motion (with extra force, because it's been sticking for years), he gets the glass down half way. Enough for Harley to shove his head out into the fresh air; away from the muted smell of cigarettes and ash, that's etched it's way into the very fibers of the bench seat's cushions. He'd rather of taken the bike, but Harley had been sat in the apartment the whole day, by himself, and he more than needed the air.

"Happy now?" he pats once at the fur on Harley's back and watches his tongue roll out of his mouth; panting out into the air. "When we get there, look cute or somethin'. Keep the son'a bitch distracted." Harley ignores him and grins, as Daryl presses his foot back against the pedals and the wind starts to blow the fur on his face, back.

Only a few minutes later, he's pulling up outside of the red brick building that's mashed in between a liquor store that doesn't card underage kids and a strip club that let's anyone in, as long as they've got a roll of bills to shove into the elastic band of some trashy girl's underwear and are willing to pay for the all you can eat buffet. He's been dragged there more than once, so he knows that they've got chicken wings on Saturdays and baby back ribs on Sundays. The brick building is a nastier place than Daryl would like, but Merle _can't_ stay with him at his place. It's more than not an option. The both of them know from experience that there's far too much drama when the pair of them get under one roof for too long of a time. They've got a tendency to butt heads when sat in the same room for too many hours. And then there's the fact that Merle's messier than he can really stand. Which says a lot, because Daryl ain't no spring peach, himself.

It's not a crack house, though, and Merle doesn't seem bothered about the neon light of the strip joint next door that flashes in through his bedroom window at just the most horrific angle. In fact, he fucking loves being so close to two of his favorite things; booze and tail. So, Daryl doesn't say anything on this particular matter; he lets it slide. If Merle wants to live in this shit hole, fucking let him. As, long as he doesn't start using any of the Something's that he sells, Daryl could give a rat's ass where he chooses to take his shoes off.

Which reminds him of the reason he's there to start with.

Daryl shuts down the engine of the truck and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, to get Harley's attention. The shelter taught him that, although it's rare that his dog even listens. In fact, it's how he got caught up in the mess he was in when he'd been hurrying out of his apartment and down the stairs, earlier. Harley likes to move forward without him; never too far, though, because he's smart like that. But, his being smart don't mean he ain't dumb, too. Sort-of like Merle in that sense. In juggling them three bags, Daryl had lost control of the hand holding the leash and Harley had raced forward after the lady who lives a floor below him, who'd been getting her mail. She's short with grey streaked hair, quiet, and cowers a little in her stance whenever she passes Daryl in the front stairwell. Old bat thought he was gonna do something to her, more than likely. He wouldn't. Didn't appreciate much being accused without him actually giving her a _reason_ to be afraid, either. But, Harley had run after her on her way out of the building and Daryl had only just managed to get his hand on the leash, again, as the door was closing. Too much happening at once, with the dog and the bags and his head swirling around about whatever fight Merle was gonna put up; if he'd even bother to try.

And, after he'd been struggling for a few minutes, he was choosing which item to drop from his grasp when the door flung open, again, and someone much_ much _younger than the lady from the fourth floor was on the front steps instead, blubbering something out; he wasn't sure what. There was too much on his mind to register the syllables flying out of the space of her mouth, though. There was too much that he already had to be worrying about, to care what she was saying. Didn't need some blonde bitch complicating things with idle chit chat, no matter what her reasons or intentions were.

She'd looked scared of him, too, thinking back on it.

But the look on her face didn't matter none. Daryl had bigger issues to deal with than some teenager with a hero complex.

"Come on, boy," he instructs, twisting at his waist and pulling open the latch at the driver's side door to let the both of them out. While he immediately swivels on his feet to the side of the bed, Harley trots over to one of the few small city planted trees on the sidewalk, his leash dragging behind him for the millionth time, to piss against the bark. His fingers grip each duffel bag one by one and uses his strength to swing them over the edge. As each one makes contact with his back, Daryl let's out a puff of breath as the various contents slam against him; the plastic one being particularly painful. He can't believe he has to do this. Again. When Harley's finished, Daryl secures his stance, so he won't fall over, as he reaches towards the ground to grab hold of the leash. He doesn't need a dog running off, just now. He needs everything to not completely explode in his face, because it was a long day and he's just not feeling a big blow out, right now.

Sometimes when Daryl comes home from work, he pulls open the main street door and looks around at where he lives - taking it all in. It's not the nicest building in the world, but it's not the worst, either. Fairly cheap in rent (even though that isn't a priority - he's been doing well), a bedroom big enough to fit the necessary furniture, and a shower that works are pretty much the only things on his list of requirements. But, sometimes, he'll pull that main door open and glance up at the flickering light bulb and wonder if it's not screwed in all the way, or if there's a wiring issue that could be fixed. He'll pull open the main front door and glance for the smallest of seconds to the elevator that is literally never gonna be fixed (no matter how many times Dale tell's him he's got someone coming), before starting his way up the five flights of stairs to his floor. He'll routine it all everyday and think about his own living standards; that they're sub-par by most normal people's standards and probably his own if he wasn't so used to sleeping amongst worse. Much worse. Roofs falling apart and wind whistling through cracks in the wall. Daryl knew he could find a better place to park his ass if he really wanted to waste the time looking for a new apartment; he ain't broke. But, he can't seem to care and it doesn't matter anyway, because when he walks through the main door to his brother's apartment building, his own place suddenly becomes fucking Buckingham Palace.

Merle's building is dark even on the brightest day, the paint is peeling off of the wall in noticeable chunks, and there's always a weird smell, like no one's taken a rag to nothing since the first bricks were layed. Daryl saw a rat, once, chewing on some wiring that he's gotta feeling was important. And he knows for a fact that a prostitute name Pamela Peeves lives in the third apartment on the second floor, behind door 203. He's gotten an unfortunate earful on more than one occasion about what she knows how to do with her tongue and how quickly she's willing to bend over a coffee table. His brother always was a sharer. But, Daryl's been down here so many times, at this point, that this feeling he gets is something of second nature. Without much more than that same familiar beat, he's trekking up the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor; bags banging against his back some more and dog happily trotting along. He gives a courtesy knock when he arrives at the correct apartment and immediately hears a hollered dismal and the television raising to full volume, in return. A great start.

"Merle!" Daryl calls out, unconcerned about the racket either of them are are making (it's really a non-issue in this building) and turns the knob. It's not locked, of course, and Daryl thinks that it's just the most moronic thing. A drug dealer and all around middle business crook shouldn't be dumb enough to allow such quick access to his flesh and bones, especially when there's bound to be multiple people with ones to pick with the man in question.

"Well, _hey_ there, baby brother," Merle says with a wave of the hand that doesn't have it's finger's wrapped around the neck of a bottle of beer, as Daryl shuffles over the threshold, along with Harley, and slams it shut behind him; the wood slamming into place, shaking the floor. "Just lettin' yerself into people's home's, now, I see. That's breakin' and enterin'! What'd that get me way back, huh?"

"Juvie for a year and that's 'cause it wasn't just no B and E. It was armed robbery, you dumbass." Merle's lounging out on his old bargin basement couch, with a smile and a shrug. There's a hole in the fabric and the legs it stands on are all scratched up from god knows what. Daryl takes note that he's in nothing but a untied robe and a pair of boxers. There's socks on his feet, a remote in the hand that isn't clutching the beer, and the coffee table set out in front of him is littered in empty orange containers. Waiting to be filled or _hoping_ to be refilled, is where the problem lies. "Anyway, that ain't why I'm here," Daryl drops the handle to the leash (Harley does nothing but plop down pathetically to the floor) and swings the duffels Merle's way, one by one. They each land with a deafening _smack_ against the coffee table, one after the other; little containers and their white caps flying every which way. Some spin in place, before flattening out and others roll off of the dusty surface and down to the filth littered floor. There's paper, clothing, bottles, cans, and pizza boxes everywhere and the caps settle in right next to them. Merle looks up with a sigh and presses the volume button on the remote down a few notches; silencing Scooby and the gang the barest amount. "You can't keep this shit at my house, Merle!"

"I _just_ organized all them canisters, Darlina. That was a lot of work," is all Merle says. He barely even flinches at the newest mess. Daryl sets his eyes in frustration at Merle's deflection. And the name. "Ya see, I normally got myself this eager little Mexican to do this shit _for_ me. But, he's on other job right now, if you catch my drift."

Ever since they were little, Merle had always had a knack for getting around the things he didn't want to talk about and he implored it in his day to day life. He was charming, in his own right. Always had been, for some strange reason. He had a weird way of making an insult come out smooth and clean, like melted butter on a piece of toast. Made people mad and have a irritated smile set on the plains of their faces, at the same time; not sure why they had a grin in place and disappointed in themselves for it succumbing so easily. Merle was rude and intentionally offending and they all knew that none of them should find it so captivating. It _wasn't_ captivating. It was ridiculous. Daryl doesn't have time to be tricked into letting him keep three duffel bags of various pills next to his refrigerator, though. "Are you usin' again?" Daryl asks, with a pointed look of barely masked concern and a worried purpose in his tone. "Just tell me straight, Merle."

"Why don't you get yerself a beer and take a seat, Darlina?" Merle raises the opening of his bottle to his lips and nods to the television that's propped up on three green milk baskets. "Pretty damn sure that this old man's the one behind it all."

"The old man is _always_ the one behind it all ... That's the whole point of the show," Daryl mumbles under his breath and heads to the fridge, despite it all. Merle talks about what he wants to talk about, when he wants to talk about it. They're similar in that way, Daryl supposes. If Merle wanted to know something off of Daryl, the likelihood is that he'd have just as hard of a time trying to drag it out from the depths of which it sat. "And that ain't giving it to me straight." He reaches in the fridge to grab a bottle and makes his way back to the couch to fall down into the weakly sprung cushion.

"You need to relax, baby brother. Do I _look _strung out?"

He doesn't. His eyes are as clear as someone who's two beers in can be and they ain't darting around looking for something to take the edge off. "Guess not... Fine, you're clean for now," Daryl wraps the edge of his shirt around the bottle cap and twists until it pops off. "But, that don't change nothin' about breakin' into my apartment and leavin' ... evidence and shit all around my place."

"What are you, now? A cop?" his brother asks; his tone implying that that would be the worst thing Daryl could ever be. "A few bags of stash here and there ain't gonna hurt ya," Merle shrugs his shoulders. "Just need'ta keep 'em in a place that ain't no one gonna look. Got'a few _amigos_ I'm keepin' an eye on."

"No, I ain't a cop. But, I do know one," Daryl quirks his brow and takes a swig. "Did a job for him and his wife awhile back... Working on the plans for something new for them, now."

Merle's responding chuckle is low in his throat and he rolls his head on his neck to look over, "You wouldn't do nothin' like that and we both know it." They do both know it. It's an idle threat on Daryl's part because, he would never do something like that to family. Blood is thicker than water, is how that old saying goes, and Daryl has an attachment to it that he doesn't quite want to understand. Seems like it don't matter what Merle does with his time, how dumb and reckless he knows how to act, or what he sells; Daryl's never gonna go out of his way to make things worse. That first time that Merle got locked up for holding a gun in the direction of that petrified family a few blocks away from their own shit hole (while his friends shoved things in their bags), leaving him defenseless and alone with their Pa, and Daryl hadn't turned his back; he knew. Besides, Merle taking another stint behind bars isn't something that either of them want to deal with, at the moment. "Still don't know why yer not workin' for me, baby brother. Shumpert's been talkin' to one of our manufacturers and we've got some damn good product comin' in; gonna make a real good profit as long as-" and just like that, the previous conversation is over. Daryl's relieved at how things have gone down and, secretly, frustrated, all at the same time. He'd come home from a job to find those bags in his home and immediately started worrying about what the confrontation would be. He's glad that Merle doesn't have it in him to fight about this, today, just like Daryl doesn't. As long as the bags he just deposited don't come back with him and Merle isn't swallowing anything that's in the little plastic containers, he's okay. For now.

Daryl keeps his eyes trained on the repeated motions of Shaggy and Scooby Doo shoving submarine sandwiches down the very lengths of their throats on the television, whilst Merle goes on a horribly familiar spew of Daryl leaving his job and coming back under his wing. It's a tired conversation that he's heard on more than one instance. He hadn't really expected anything less, he thinks as he settles back with his beer to do nothing for the rest of the day.

xxxxx

Beth desperately needs to switch shifts, at work. She needs something later in the day and less likely affected by the newest morning ritual that's seemingly taken over her entire life. She needs a shift where she has more time and more patience and significantly _less_ dark, drooping, bags underneath dull and tired eyes.

Back home, she used to really enjoy all of the morning chores that Daddy had assigned to her (at what felt like) the second she was able to walk around the land without constant adult supervision. That was farm life, though. You fed chickens at the crack of dawn, made sure all of the horses had their feed, and _then_ you made your way to school.

She had always liked waking up to the lightly laced and familiar symphony of the morning crickets that lived out in the front lawn, by the porch steps. Early risers amongst early risers (except for her, of course - she wakes up because she's supposed to, not because she looks forward to it). She liked the smell of bacon cooking on the stove in a skillet and her mom humming quietly to herself; both coming up through the air vent in her floor. She'd hear her hum the songs she used to sing to Beth when she was just a little baby and couldn't sleep through the whole of the long nights. Songs she would hopefully sing to her own children, one day. Beth would stretch out in her sheets; her tired bones cracking, her fingers flexing, and crack one eye open to look through the soft white curtains that she'd forced Shawn to secure up and into place above the far window. The placement of the window looked off into the fields and she was able to look out at the sky, dark with the lack of the early sun. And after shuffling off the pajamas that she slept in and into something of a cotton dress, she'd make her way down the old stairwell, skipping the fourth step down that squeaked when you stepped directly in the middle, and find her way outside to do those works.

She'd think about how the fragrance of the morning dew clinging desperately against each individual blade of grass, was one of which cosmetic companies would never be able to duplicate no matter how hard they tried, as she made her way down to the stables; until the gravel path faded away and the shiny, wet, grass was all that remained. She would be tired, yawning and rubbing away at the sleep stuck in the corners of her eyes, but she'd be at peace. Comfortable. Back home, as well, she wasn't the only one who had to deal with their way of life. Daddy woke up earlier than anyone else did. He'd peal himself out of his and her mom's bed and shuffle his way on down those stairs, not bothering to skip stepping on the one the squeaked, and out the front door to greet their paid farm hand, Otis. He'd be chatting with the family friend about tractor parts that needed fixing, way before those crickets started in on their song and Beth's eyes cracked open. Mom would follow soon after and if Maggie had still lived at home, instead of in the canary yellow house in the middle of town with Glenn, she'd be pulling herself awake around the same time Beth was, to start in on her own chores.

Here, though, in this brick building away from those crickets and that bacon and those arresting melodies and her Daddy and Otis' voices drifting up through the glass panes of her window, she's alone in it and far _far _from comfortable.

Beth rolls off of her back and onto her side to look over at the alarm clock that she's got resting on her bedside table. The red of the letters, which she's starting to believe she's growing incredibly too familiar with, glow ominously in the dark black of the early morning; casting shadows across the plains of her face. _Four_. It's four in the morning and she's already been startled alert by the deep yips from across the hall. This isn't the cool awakening of the wind whistling soothingly outside her window, gently rocking the tall grass across the span of the back field, back and forth. This isn't the soft rapping of her mom's careful knuckles against the black-wood of her bedroom door, reminding her about the geometry test she's got later in the day and how she needs to make sure she eats a hearty breakfast beforehand. This is the remarkably loud, sudden, and _irritating_ barks of the animal taking residence across the hallway. Every single day.

Beth thinks back to those few days ago, when she'd just gotten off of her shift and came upon the Rott, with it's butt planted firmly on the dirty pavement of her building's front steps. It was a normal sized dog, really. There was nothing either remarkable or abnormal about the thing, at all. Which seemed strange considering all the horrible thoughts she'd had found herself conjuring up about the darn thing, up until that point. She'd imagined horns or something; raised up higher than the Empire State Building looks in all of them pictures. She'd imagined fangs; sharp and dangerous and ready to strike against the misty morning air. She'd imagined something... _dramatic_. Something dramatic and massive and petrifying. Something _worthy _of making all of the noise that was rattling the very core of the apartment building, every single morning and right now. But, it wasn't. It wasn't scary and it wasn't large. The majority of it's mass was around it's midsection; fat and plump in the happiest of ways. In fact, despite it's collar being pulled tight against the strain of the door, with it's tongue rolled out past it's teeth and it's casual pants breaking out into the air, Beth thinks it was a cute lil' thing in retrospect.

Such a pleasant and hearty dog, with such a smile in it's eyes, should not make the sort of noise that it currently is.

It just doesn't make any sense, to her.

Beth cranes her neck in an odd sort of way, that she's more than sure she's going to regret later on, to mash her face into the softest flush of her pillow to try and will away the unwelcome light and the sound. _Just go on and pretend that it's not there and it won't be_, is what she thinks to herself, as the hairs of her lashes brush against the pillow case. _There ain't no use getting upset over something so silly_.

Those red letters burn against the backs of her eyelids, though. With her eyes closed tight, she can actually _see_ each of the individual slashes of the alarm clock gliding together and glowing outwards to create the 'four' that she's so frustrated at. The horrific and unacceptable number feels branded against that patch of her skin, taunting her. Laughing. Beth has an early shift today ontop of everything else, as well. She's trying to get ahead of everything in this very moment, so that when the time comes, she'll be able to pay her rent in the least frantic manner as she can possibly manage. She knows that if she really needs help, of course, that she could always call Daddy and he'll lend a hand. After all, he was the one that purposefully made sure that his youngest daughter was set up in a "livable" environment. The cheapest rent apartment she'd showed to him had received a resounding rejection, that had had her rolling her eyes in the most dramatic possible way, at the time.

"If you're gonna be off on your own, Bethy, I don't want to have to be _worrying_ about ya all the time. You might be an adult, now. But, you're _still _a teenager. Don't want ya getting mugged every other day, before you even step one foot out of the building. Your mom and I? We have to know your place is safe... if not clean," he'd argued outside on the sidewalk of a more run down apartment building.

Of course, when she'd asked for more hours, T-Dog had happily handed over the Crawl; that time so early in the day, that it felt like nobody was about and for those who were, coffee was apparently all that was on the menu. At the time, Beth hadn't said anything and felt zero momentum to protest. She'd asked for something and she had received, after all. But, she's still thinking that she needs a more drastic change if she's going to survive such long shifts. The last few mornings have been nothing but this; the noise across the way and Beth fretting over it. It's made her slower than usual and far more cranky than she'd like to be on a consistent basis.

Beth starts to feel the thump of her heart beating against her chest, built upon her frustration. Just a few deeps breaths later, however, the barking suddenly stops and her eyes glide back open, as if in shock. She waits for the swing of 5C's door to open and the inevitable clicking of nails against the wood of the hall, but it never comes. Silence. Pure and remarkable _silence_. Beth hovers in her spot for a few moments; neck still twisted 'round, face still mashed, eyes still cautiously open (trained against those same red numbers), right arm stuffed underneath the pillow in support. She hovers and she waits. Because, if she's learnt anything in this brick fortress, it's that things can sometimes be too good to be true. Rent can be miraculously be paid before Mr. Horvath comes rapping at her door in friendly reminder. The shower's water pressure can magically find it's courage to visit her bathroom, from time to time. And this is the perfect example of all of that.

But, nothing else happens to disrupt the suddenly welcomed peace and the moment of hush continues; stretching on and on for more sums of minutes.

Eventually, her body starts to relax back into place; happily accepting the change and silently thanking God for her chance to rest, before she's got to pull herself out of bed, once more, for work. Then, sleep begins to overtake her, as the shirted curve of her hip melts back against the mattress and her eyes finally slide shut. Beth swears on her life that she's only out for a couple of minutes, before the barking returns, surely more rambunctious than before. Okay, she's not sure if it's the dog that's gotten louder, this second time around, or if she's just slowly losing her mind. In her honest opinion, both options seem incredibly plausible.

"You have to be kiddin' me!" Beth's entire being shocks awake, as she shoves up on her palms to raise herself out of her small moment of comfort. She glares in the general direction of her front door and stews in her despair, running through her encounter with her arch rival, once more. The dog that's making all of the racket may of been a cute lil' thing when she seen it for that first time and his eyes may of been happy, but his owner's sure weren't. If there was any word in the whole of the English language that Beth wouldn't use to describe the man that was struggling the other day, it was "cute."

_Alarming_, comes to mind. _Rude_, does, as well.

Just the thought of him standing there, eyebrows drawn together and lips pulled into a tight line, causes Beth to let out a frustrated puff of breath. Who was he, to be so brusque, when she'd gone out of her way to offer a neighborly lending hand? She didn't have to go to help the dog and she didn't have to offer to help _him_, either. Beth just doesn't understand what's wrong with the people in this city. She can't seem to grasp this lack of courtesy. Back home, if she or anyone else had gone out of their way to try and make someone else's life easier, they'd receive a smile in return or they'd receive kind words in exchange for such an act. Sometimes, people were extraordinarily grateful for your assistance and the next time you saw them after doing your good deed, they were waiting with freshly baked bread, made from the grain they'd milled themselves on their farm. Here, though, Beth receives nothing of the sort and is regarded with caution when she presents the same to others that she meets. People squint their eyes at her smile and they ignore her when she holds the door open for them. People scoff when she bends down at the curb of a crosswalk to pick something up that they've dropped at their feet and at her "good morning's" they tell her to "fuck off."

She's not familiar with this distance.

She's not familiar with this city.

Now that she really thinks about it, despite the manners her mom had instilled in her very bones, she shouldn't of done _anything_ for the man in the leather sleeves and his mutt. All he's done since she's moved into this building, was let his dog break all of the rules of civilized society. The fact that she's not heard of anyone else taking residence here, complaining, boggles her mind. Maybe they're all as wary as she is, about being on the receiving end of such a harsh glare? Or, maybe they're all superhuman's who don't twitch a single muscle whenever the barks start back up? She's probably alone in it, more than likely; Beth's so used to those quiet rises of her family's farm. She's used to carefully and casually rolling herself out of bed and making her way out of the door and across the grass at her own leisurely pace. These people are used to the noise, she supposes. They're used to the cars driving past their windows at all hours of the night and they're used to horrible neighbors, who don't give a damn about keeping the racket down during normal human being's sleeping hours.

And suddenly, Beth is _angry_ at this man's disrespectful behavior.

She's angry that she's constantly startled awake by a ball of fur and his un-abiding owner. She's angry that she's _angry_, at any of this, at all. She's angry that she's thinking such negative thoughts about somebody she's never even had the proper chance to of spoken to, because she usually likes to give everyone she comes across the benefit of the doubt.

She wants to believe the most people mean no harm; that they mean good and well.

But, for some reason, she's skipping that step, this time, and her legs are swinging over the edge of her mattress to place socked feet against the carpeted floor. Beth doesn't give herself a moment to think about herself and her actions, as she pats at her legs to remind herself if she's wearing bottoms or not, before she's shuffling across her front room (bashing into the arm of the couch, of course) and out of her apartment door. It's cold out in the hallway; the air against her legs and arms making her shiver just so. But, she can't be concerned about any of that. Out here, the deep yips are even more attentive and aggravating then they are when she's in her bed, and that fuels the fire running through her blood, even further. Her closed fist comes up to bang against the door. She struggles, for a moment, about whether to knock against it politely or not. But, she figures annoyance for annoyance, in this particular circumstance. The barks grow, before they're right up next to the door and Beth looks down against the wood, as light scratches start up; the dog greeting her, before anyone else.

But, then, she hears the sound of the chain lock sliding out of place and the click of the handle lock being switched positions and the door is being pulled open.

Beth pauses the motion of her arm, allowing her fist to hover in mid air, while she takes in the sight before her.

The man with the leather sleeves has no leather sleeves, just skin on his upper half, as he's slowing the swing of the chain. She doesn't look for more than a second, though, at his bare chest and pajama bottoms. Instead she squints her eyes in the way she's been learning from all of the people who walk the city streets and scans up to meet his face. She's got to tilt her head skywards to meet his gaze and she's vaguely concerned that it takes away the ounce of "intimidating" she's trying to achieve. It's seems likely, because he's simply stood there, his eyes almost as tired as hers and waiting for her to speak. She can tell, because, unlike the other day, his hair isn't shielding the top half of his face, so drastically. Instead, it's scattered up and around his head in weird directions, as if he's just pulled himself out of bed, same as she has. But, unlike her, it appears he'd been sleeping soundly.

She's mad again.

"Hello," Beth starts, jutting out her chin and preparing for the storm she's hoping to provide. "I live across the hall."

The man reaches down to grab at the collar of the dog from before, who's trying to wedge his way out through the passage that's been created. "'hm. I know," his voice quietly croaks, as he tugs back on the collar more gently than Beth figured he would and clicks his tongue twice. The dog rolls his tongue out and looks up to meet the man's face, almost in defiance, before letting out another bark. Just one. As if making fun of the situation.

"Yes, _that_," she points down at the black coated being at his feet. "I'm not sure if you're aware Mr. ... Mister. But, your dog starts up it's nonsense at around this time every morning and I don't appreciate it," Beth lets her raised hand fall against her other arm, raising them both to cross across her chest. When his eyes scroll back up from his dog and scan across her face, she suddenly feels like this wasn't that good of an idea. Beth can feel him taking in the plains of her face one by one, registering the pull of her own brows and the sudden hesitation in her eyes; her Daddy's advice starting in on a loop, as it often does when she isn't sure what she's doing. "I've- I've got a feeling that there are some others in this building, as well, who'd more than love for you to get a handle on the situation," she chokes out and tells herself to relax. She can handle a man in a pair of grey sweats and sleep evident in his eyes. It's like Shawn. Shawn gave her more grief than she ever thought possible; his civil rights, as a brother. If she can deal with him she can deal with this man.

At her remark, her neighbor raises a brow just slightly and looks sleepily around her form and down the hallway, where all of the other doors on their floor are stock still and don't appear to be changing any time soon, and then back to her. He looks confused, almost. As if, it never occurred to him that there might be people who are bothered by his lack of control over his pet. As if, her standing in front of him is a strange sort-of amusement.

"Some of us got work in the mornings. Don't know what you're doin', but it's kind-of difficult being woken up by this thing and having to drag themselves in and, quite frankly, disrespectful on your part, to let it continue," Beth's grip on her arms tighten and she rocks her head in question; eyes pointedly meeting his. He shifts his own to break the contact and brushes a foot back to knock lightly at the animal's head, who's still on an escape mission. "Well? Are ya gonna gonna say anything?"

xxxxx

Daryl isn't particularly interested in anything that's currently happening. He's mostly amused at the tiny thing in-front of him. The same women from before, who'd attempted to play hero a few days ago, is stood outside his door.

He can't remember much from that day apart from dropping the too many drugs off at his brother's house and that he wrote himself a note after work to make a trip to Home Depot to pick himself up a new drill. But, he can vaguely recall this girl and the small of her hands coming up to grip a hold against Harley's leash. He can vaguely recall this girl and her frazzled appearance; hair just so out of place and skirt spotted with something brown and unpleasant. Other than that, though, he'd rushed right passed her; completely unfocused on anything she'd had to say, at the time. But, here in his doorway, somewhere in the back of his mind her recognizes it her and her presence. She's just as frumpled as she was outside of their building, the other day. Her hair is flopping out of place of her ponytail; little individual strands of blonde dancing across the span of her face. Her t-shirt is wrinkled in the way that sleep brings and it's so long, he hardly noticed the shorts she was wearing underneath, for a second. For a moment, it was just blonde, t-shirt, and the flesh of her legs, stretching down towards the floor.

He's certain that she's talking or _yelling_, even, in her own way. And at him of all people. But, his mind hasn't caught up with his sudden awakening, from the knock on his door and it's not registering in the way that it should be.

None of those things matter, though, because, it's the expression on her face that really catches his attention. When he'd first tugged the weight of the door open, she'd looked determined. Her face was pinched up all small and her gaze was settled downward, where he knew Harley was attempting to make his way through the wood. She'd looked determined for all of of a few seconds but, then her eyes flicked and she'd looked unsure. There was something in them, though, that made him feel like this was her going out of her way. That this was her biting at him and intending to get her damn point across. When she mentions their neighbors, Daryl turns his head to look down the hall and grins in his head. An old man who talks to birds, a middle aged women that runs a club, who sleeps in the day and stays out until mornings, and a whole bunch of other nameless faces. They didn't care, not a single one.

Daryl suddenly realizes that she's still talking.

"I'll take him out," he breaks through the words she's spewing out; soft words, intended to be hard. She startles some, at the the full sentence leaving his throat. Big blue eyes grow wide and Daryl has a fleeting thought that he's standing in front of a kitten who thinks itself a pit-bull. But, that ain't a bad thing, really. To choose to be strong. Especially against him, who, he knows, looks like something to not be approached.

Even the lady a floor below him, with the grey streaked hair, has been in his presence for five or some years, and she ain't never said none of her qualms to him; just stared in concern and worry.

"Oh! Wow, I didn't expect... Great, thank yo-" her surprised voice begins to sound out. But, Daryl's tired and Harley's flopping his head back an forth between them, with that weird grin he's always got on his face, like the putz that he is. So, he closes the door with a soft click, before 5A has a chance to even get the rest of her words out.

**A/N: Alrighty then. Hi there, lovelies. This is me mentioning that I'm a fairly slow writer, in case that wasn't completely obvious. Sorry about that. I'm going to be weird for a second and say that this whole chapter is for NB, Norm, DP, Jen, Arya, and Queen. Because, I am literally _so_ annoying whenever they bring this story up, to me. So ayyye look I finished chapter two! Ummm. Yeah, okay. Here you are then. Reviews and comments are welcome, of course. And thank you so much to those who reviewed as guests and I wasn't able to thank, personally. [tumblr/c-sand]**


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